The Doctor
by Surreptitious Chi X
Summary: Harleen Quinzel's sessions with The Joker presented in a series of scenes. Picks up after The Intern. Next stage of the ongoing story.
1. Merry Christmas

The Joker spent his afternoon watching the snow, his hands pressed up against the glass. He giggled often, a sound that upset Poison Ivy more than she was already.

Cold weather and wintertime had her bad tempered to begin with because all of her 'babies' were sleeping or dead, and she protested that the temperature inside her cell made her 'wilt'.

The Joker, sensitive soul he was, commented at one point that her plant talk was driving him crazy and that she shouldn't be a Grinch because she was ruining his fun.

Given what The Joker did to people who spoiled his fun, she retreated and spent the day sulking in a corner crooning to the mold she found there.

The Riddler was exchanging Christmas-themed riddles with The Mad Hatter.

The Penguin had gotten out of Arkham, of course, because he'd contested the decision to put him there in the first place. His lawyer, the best money could buy, squashed any rumors or evidence of mental illness and had him transferred to Blackgate. The word circulating through Arkham was that he was on the outside, and had spent Christmas free. So, of course, no one was talking about The Penguin, because they were disgruntled.

The only real event of interest was when guards came to pull The Joker out of the day room early.

"A session?" The Riddler raised an eyebrow.

The Joker waved. "Another day, another doctor." He laughed and cracked his knuckles for emphasis.

"Our holidays don't last very long, do they?" The Riddler said to no one in particular. "The day after Christmas, and we are expected to move on as usual?"

"I believe so," The Mad Hatter said sadly.

-----------------------

The Joker stopped smiling as soon as he was faced with the person on the other side of the table. His sources inside Arkham had already allowed him to memorize every detail of the despicable little brat that thought she was worthy to analyze him and pick his brain for good information about psychopaths. The blonde hair in a bun, the glasses perched on her pert little nose, her light makeup and thin, toned body. Why, she looked hardly out of high school!

He felt rage slowly building inside him like a vat of chemicals slowly coming to boil.

Harleen, for her part, was excited to be sitting in the same room with him. He was suddenly life-size instead of the grainy photograph in his case file, and it was immediately apparent that he was nearly skeleton-thin and a good six feet, six inches tall.

And he was staring at her. There was a gravely calm expression on his face.

She said the first thing that came to mind. "Merry Christmas!"

His expression didn't change.

Her smile began to fade. "Er…Mr. Joker? Did I say something wrong?"

He continued to stare at her.

She laughed nervously. "Come on, now. We can't start the session if you don't talk."

There was a five minute wait before she got the message.

"You don't want the session to start, do you?" She tapped her pen against her notebook, looking at him keenly.

He slowly raised one eyebrow. His mouth was still set in that frightening non-scowl. "Clever."

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to," she said. She held up her hands, pen dangling between her fingers. "It's impossible to trust me on the first visit. There's been so many mishaps. I understand. I'm your friend."

His eyes narrowed.

She swallowed, hard. She put on a bright smile. "What do you want to do? Wanna play a game?"

The Joker curled his lip and growled.

"No! I mean, you pick one."

"A game?"

His first words. His voice sent a shiver down her spine. He was savagely resentful, and the calculation in his words made her recall every comment ever written in The Joker's file concerning his genius-level intelligence.

She beamed. "Right!"

He glared at her.

"I'm serious." She put on her best face to prove it. "I won't be evaluating you on your game. I just want to know you better. Let's play a game together. You enjoy games." She tapped his file with her pen to indicate she'd read up on him.

A smile that foreshadowed spilled blood appeared on his face. "Oh, I'm afraid you won't like my kind of game…doctor."

Yes, she knew what games he was talking about. No, she wasn't going to say so. "Try me!"

The Joker shrugged. His eyes were locked on her intently. "It's your funeral."

Just when she thought that was it, he lunged over the table and grabbed her by the throat.

She dropped her pen and his file.

In her surprise, she was going to say that he hadn't let her know the game was starting, but with his hand around her throat, she only managed a hoarse squeak.

"Do I choke you to death or do you make me let go?" The Joker grinned from ear to ear. "Who wins, doctor? Ahahahahahaha!"

She would have panicked, really, but for some reason in her lightheadedness she noticed that she was very close to The Joker. Closer than most doctors probably got. And he was warm. People thought he must be cold because of the color of his skin.

_But if anything_, she thought, _Mr. J's warmer than an ordinary human being._

She smiled up at him dazedly.

His smile dropped off his face the moment hers appeared, a weird look in his eyes. The deer-in-the-headlights look.

He dropped her and turned around.

She found herself breathing the cool, musty air of the room again, lying on her back on the thin carpet. She reached up and adjusted her reading glasses.

"It was a joke," he snapped before she could get up. "It was a joke. I was joking." His voice was shrill and defensive. "It was just a joke! Laugh already!"

She bit her lip, partly from confusion and partly from genuine amusement at his reaction to knowing he'd done something wrong. She pushed herself up, got to her feet, and brushed herself off. Part of her couldn't help but humor him. She was his doctor, after all.

The Joker turned around at the sound of Harleen's quiet giggling.

"You're laughing."

She shrugged. "It was funny."

The Joker stared at her with a dumbfounded expression. He looked almost frightened.

She smiled at him with genuine affection, a feeling she pulled out from somewhere deep in her chest she never knew existed. "Wanna play any other games with me before our session ends?"

He dropped into his chair, still staring at her. His expression was slowly changing to reproach. "You're daffy. Loony tunes."

She felt her smile widen. She folded her hands under her chin and leaned forward on the table. "Yeah?"

He smiled in wary amusement. "Yeah. You're nuttier than Planter's peanuts, lady. How'd you end up a doctor? You ought to be locked away with us, the way you were acting. I'd put you in the suicide ward." He laughed, but he still looked at her as though she were some heretofore undiscovered creature.

She shrugged. "Well, it's a thin line between us, Mr. Joker. I've always said so."

He rubbed his chin. "Have you now?"

"Yup!"

He stared at her for a moment before answering. "I may just get to like you, doc." He turned away and raised an eyebrow. "Don't hold your breath, though."

It only took a few seconds for the remark to register before she started laughing.

The Joker glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. A surprised smile flitted across his face for a moment.

Then it disappeared at the sound of the door opening.

"Time's up." The guard gestured to The Joker and glared. An obvious 'will you come here or will I have to get you the hard way?'

The Joker put on a face of utmost dignity, nodded to Dr. Quinzel, and slowly got up from his chair. He walked the short distance to the door as though he didn't care one way or another, barely letting the guard know he even noticed someone was there. "Well, I guess our time's up, doctor. I know it's too soon for the both of us, but I have other things to do. I am a busy man, after all."

He turned to look at the guard with an expression of disdain. "Butler. Prepare my room."

The guard grabbed him by the arm and yanked him down the hallway.

The Joker furtively smiled in satisfaction at the sound of Dr. Quinzel unsuccessfully trying not to laugh.

Inspiration struck him. "Merry Christmas!" he called back towards the room at the top of his lungs.

The guard whacked him upside the head for the disturbance, but why would he care?

He stuck his tongue out at the guard and insisted on walking under his own power.


	2. Harleen's Secret Time

The best hours for writing were night – curled up in a worn out loveseat, flannel pajamas and pink socks, the notebook cradled on her knees and pen in hand. Even alone, she cupped the notebook as if others could see it, curling her body around it. This was Harleen's secret time.

There was no one to tell about The Joker's session with her – confidentiality was paramount – but she had to let some of the pressure out of her head so she could think. She wasn't thinking clearly. Words. Words had always been a good way to express herself. Secret journals, scribbled pictures in the back of school binders.

So it was that she got the notebook out from under her bed and crawled to the living room, lamps lit with golden glow and curtains drawn.

Her words were heresy so strong that she feared for herself when she wrote them, but she had to write them. They were beating so fiercely in her chest, she so believed they were true, that she needed to be rid of them.

_The Joker is an ordinary human being like you or me. The Joker is a misunderstood man who doesn't have any friends, and who needs a person to believe in. The Joker needs to be cared for, not thrust around like some second-hand nutcase. _

The bruise on her throat throbbed.

_He is a dangerous individual, that much is true. But he has been conditioned that way. He has become violent towards doctors, who he believes are out to get him or worse, kill him. His violence is his defense. He is an emotionally delicate man, and signs point to manic depression. The words people say hurt him, so he has to lash out. See case files 1, 135, 46, and 78. I think I can get through to him. I want him to be healed. I know this. I bear him no ill will. He will see that, and come to trust me. I must protect The Joker from other doctors. They will hurt him. _

At the next sentence, she dropped her pen.

_I must get him out of Arkham. _

She stared at the line on the page, blood draining from her face. The room was shaking. The words accused her, bold and black and scrawled in the hand of a madman. She covered the words with white out tape until she ran out of her dispenser. Then she flipped to another page, a fresh page, and threw the notebook under her bed where it had come from. She couldn't think clearly for the rest of the night. All she could think was: _I have to get out of here. I have to burn the evidence. I can't let them see it. _

In the morning, she thought she was foolish, and consuming way too much coffee. "Oh, the madness in the small hours of the night," she muttered, combing her hair and putting on her glasses, getting ready for work. She no longer felt that the notebook, or anything she'd written in her state of mind last night, had anything to do with anything. She rolled her eyes at herself and walked downstairs to her car.


	3. Session Two

No one wanted him in the day room as long as he was this keyed up, but he didn't care. He'd 'settle down' in due time. After all, he had plans to do. For the first time in a long, long while, plans to do while inside Arkham instead of on the outside.

The Joker threw open his arms and did a little spin. "Whee! Arkham is exciting at last! I don't even want to leave yet! Hahahahaha!"

He grinned at the distant response of The Scarecrow in his own cell. "Shut up, you cretin!"

The Scarecrow was surly because he'd just been captured by the Bat after an almost-successful showdown that had ended in disaster. A canister of fear gas had spilled and terrified off all of The Scarecrow's henchmen, who hadn't been wearing their gas masks because a certain Boy Wonder pinched them all before the battle began.

"What a debacle!" The Joker yelled back. He cackled. "No wonder you're in a sore mood, spoil sport!"

"Shut up!"

The guards in the hallway quickly broke up this discussion between inmates before it could get any further, but The Joker didn't care because as far as he was concerned, he'd had the last word. The last word always belonged to him.

"Speaking of which," The Joker said, tapping his chin, "what is the last word on the doctor going to be, hmm?" He cupped his ear and looked around his empty cell.

He twirled around, and shrugged. "Well, I can think of a couple things."

The Joker giggled to himself for the entire day, but he didn't dare start laughing at the top of his lungs, because they might sedate him, and then he'd miss his free time. He wanted to be prepared before he saw that doctor again.

"If you're daffy then there's nooo-ooothing to worry about." He grinned from ear to ear. "And if you're not, my sweet Dr. Quinzel, you will be after a few more sessions of me."

-----------------------

Harleen shifted again in her chair. She'd arrived five minutes early to see what she could do with the awful session room, but as it turned out, there wasn't much she _could_ do. The table was bolted to the floor, decorations were against regulations, and she wasn't allowed to bring anything into the room more dangerous than paper and writing utensils. Writing utensils that didn't come apart and couldn't be used to stab people. It was hopeless.

She was obviously dejected when The Joker came in, looking down at the worn wooden table.

"What's the matter, doc?" The Joker asked, dropping into his chair. He glared a 'get lost' at the guards.

They left when Harleen looked up and let them know it was okay. When they shut the door, she sighed. "I'm sad, I guess." She looked at him searchingly. "Arkham is kind of a sad place by definition, isn't it? I don't blame anyone for not liking it here."

The Joker made a mockery of a sympathetic face, then brightened, snapping his fingers. "Oh, doctor, I got you a present. This might cheer you up. They wouldn't let me go to the store, so I had to make it myself." He batted his eyelashes and pouted, his most innocent look. He handed her the sheet of paper. The blob of purple paint was almost soaking through the other side.

She took it in both hands to keep it from breaking in pieces under the weight of the paint. "What is it?" It was a formless purple shape in the middle of a big, white piece of paper. She studied it every which way.

"Why, it's the bruise on your neck, of course."

She blushed before she could think about how to react. She'd put makeup over the bruise this morning, because it was still there. Harleen looked up to see The Joker's grin. Needling, but mischievous. Some little tactic to push her away, she decided. "Of course it is! I just didn't recognize the brilliance of your metaphoric style. It's very good. Where did you learn to paint?" She smiled back at him, again finding that special reserve of good natured patience.

His smile flickered for but a moment. Then he made a show of puffing out his chest proudly. "As it happens, I am entirely self-taught."

"Really?" She looked at the painting again. "That's amazing!"

His eyes narrowed at her.

She dropped the smile and became serious. "I mean it. As soon as it dries, I'm putting it on my wall in a frame. It's a momento of our first session together."

He leaned back in his chair and started laughing. "You really are daffy!"

She smiled at him, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe I am."

"You're nuttier than a fruitcake! Trust me, doc."

"If you'll trust me, Mr. Joker."

He narrowed his eyes at her, his mood changing in less time than it would've taken for a pin to drop.

Then he gave an affectedly casual wave of his hand and propped his feet up on the table. "Why not?" he said to the wall. "You're a good kid. Sure I'll trust you. I'll tell you everything I know."

Harleen knew this was a non-answer, and she didn't hold her breath. The Joker had told her not to, and that part, she believed. "I can't make you trust me by asking for it."

He studied her. First she was daffy, then she wasn't. First she went about like she had air for brains, then she said something like that. What was her game? "So what are you going to do, doc?"

Harleen winked at him. "I'll figure something out. It all depends on you, though. If you want to tell me something, you will. If you don't, then we'll keep playing games at every session until you want to do something else."

The Joker dropped his feet back down to the floor. He leaned forward over the table, hands folded. "This time, you choose a game, doc. How about you answer my questions, for the time being?" The grin across his face was ominous. It was less like blood this time, and more like someone meticulously putting together a delicate machine of destruction. A homeowner laying a mousetrap in glee.

"Ask me," Harleen said simply.

The Joker's eyes glittered. "What game do you play, doctor? The world's a game, you know, and it's in how you play it that determines your satisfaction. I am The Joker. Some kids pretend to be Superman, or the President of the United States. Who are you, doctor? Some…super star, perhaps? Or maybe a fashion model. You could strut the runway. Dear Eddie Nygma decided to be The Riddler. Jonathan Crane is The Scarecrow. Whoever he is…dresses up as the Batman and flies through the night. What's your secret identity?"

'_Kills humans without remorse,'_ Harleen remembered from his case files. That could mean only one thing to a psychologist. The vast array of doctors from The Joker's first enrollment to the person who had him before her noted the same thing over and over again. _'He thinks he is smarter than the average human. That he doesn't belong with the rest of us. He is greater, grander, and goes to any lengths to prove it. He murders out of superiority'. _

This request of his was a challenge: Be one of us, or be prey. Which is it, doctor?

But the challenge was also his trap: identify with one of them, and she excluded herself from one of her own kind. The doctors, the law, the human beings she was trying to protect by locking him up in here and talking her way to a cure for him.

Was she with him, or was she dead?

She knew she was caught. It was either be a part of his select group, the 'real' people, or walk away. And she couldn't walk away. She couldn't bear to. She knew that by doing this, that was what he wanted to achieve – as amiable as he had been so far, nothing had changed since his death threat towards her. He didn't want her to meddle with his business.

"Me?" She used the power of her baby blue eyes to hide her tenseness. "I used to be a gymnast. I performed slapstick in one of my school plays." She spread her hands. "Why, I'm the perfect match for you! You can call me Harley Quinn." She put on a teasing smile. "You know: like harlequin."

He sat there for a second. His white face was completely blank. Then he forced a loud laugh and slapped the table. "Are you hitting on me, doc?"

"Are you interested?"

The Joker stared at his painting. It was lying between them on the table. _I paint her a bruise, and she acts like it's flowers? _He doubted he even wanted someone that loony around. Sure, he was crazy, but one thing he was sure of was that he wasn't crazy like that. He knew when people hated him. The Bat, now, The Bat hated him. He didn't develop some weird crush on the guy just because he showed up a lot. He showed up because he was trying to knock his teeth out and send him back to Arkham. There was a difference there.

"Am I interested? Why would I be interested in dating a head shrink?"

She batted her eyelashes. "Oh, _Harley's_ not a head shrink. She's a clown. A good little clown." She smiled. "But she doesn't know when to shut up, and her brain's not really full capacity. Don't expect brilliance from a rock, Mr. Joker."

He turned away and crossed his arms. "We'll see if I can't…polish you a little. Take off a few layers. That might be nice."

That was a threat if she ever heard one. But all the same…Harleen grinned. "Try it. Let's see what happens. Maybe you're not such a sandpaper personality after all. You never know."


	4. Trouble

Harleen decided she was in trouble. She really needed to go to Dr. Arkham and tell him everything she had said, and everything The Joker had done, and what he had said about her, and why she did it. She chewed her lip restlessly, wringing her hands and walking throughout her office blindly.

She went through the whole conversation with Dr. Arkham in her head, playing both parts. The best ones resulted in him taking away The Joker and locking him up in isolation for bad behavior. Even that tore at her heart, because it had been her playing games with him that had made him act that way. She was the inappropriate one, not him.

"But the worst ones!" she squeaked out loud.

She was going to get fired. She was sure. And then she was going back all the way home to New Jersey. Her parents would be disappointed at her throwing away her college career. Her brother would tell her that she was exactly what he expected from an anti-social freak who never even went to the Prom. He'd never stopped torturing her for staying home and drawing pictures of her imaginary 'perfect man'. He'd caught her in her prom dress, talking to her picture. 'It wasn't even a good picture,' he'd said before, making a face at her. It had made her cry.

"Maybe I can still cure The Joker." She stood still.

-----------------

"Dr. Arkham?"

He looked up at her. "Yes?"

She held the piece of paper by a corner. She closed the door behind her. "I think I have some good news to report."

"Good news? In what regard?"

"About The Joker!" She recovered from her excited outburst and stammered, "I- I mean, Jack Napier. He's talking to me."

Dr. Arkham raised an eyebrow. "I'd say this is indeed an uncommon success, Dr. Quinzel, if you mean that he is truly divulging some of his thoughts."

"There's more!" She started forward, extending the piece of paper like a hopeful puppy. "He gave me a present!"

The doctor stared at it. "…What is it?"

"Um…" She looked down at it, suddenly realizing that telling him was a bad idea. "It's…well…it's a bruise."

"That sounds like a death threat."

She gave him her most dazzlingly blue-eyed look of innocence. "But why would The Joker make death threats instead of just doing it? He's never warned any other doctors."

"This is true," Dr. Arkham admitted. "In that light, even if it is a death threat, that would be a compliment. He feels enough of a connection to you to warn you away."

She smiled brilliantly. "See? I am getting somewhere with him!"

He looked at her sternly. "That may be true, but be careful."

She went wide-eyed again and saluted. "Of course I will!" She turned to leave, then paused. "You don't mind if I hang this on my wall, do you?"

"Unless _you_ mind, Ms. Quinzel, I doubt I have any authority to monitor how you choose to decorate your office," Dr. Arkham said dryly.

She beamed at him. "Thank you!" She skipped out.

_Oh my god! I didn't die! I didn't get fired! I'm a home run! _

She froze. _But if someone looks at those video tapes of the sessions, they'll know what I've been doing._

-----------------

The actual tapes sat guiltily in her desk drawer, looking up at her in a reproachful inanimate-object way that made her mouth go dry. She couldn't believe she did that. She'd replaced the session tapes with A Mickey Mouse Christmas and The Elephant Show. She'd dug around until she'd found old tapes from home, and then she'd enacted the substitute. Now she really was in trouble. She moaned and put her head in her hands. _If I get caught, I'm history! Just another corrupted doctor in the flawed legal system! Oh, why did I do it? _

She imagined telling The Joker what she'd done, and realized that someone expecting to find a psychiatric session and instead watching the opening to The Elephant Show maybe wasn't all that bad. After all, it was kind of funny.

She giggled nervously.

Her reasonable side told herself: _Oh boy. You're in trouble._


	5. Lands Unknown

**Lands Unknown**

--------------------------------

Dr. Arkham's office on a day when rain beats against the windows, rattled with peppercorns of hail. The potted plants gleamed darkly in the subdued light of the torch lamps. The overhead light seemed dim, oddly weak and jaundiced. The rich rust colored carpet turned almost black in the shadows.

Dr. Arkham sat as his walnut desk, posed with one hand on his glasses. His coat was dark, and so were his slacks and tie.

By contrast, Dr. Quinzel shone in her white coat, powder blue blouse and skirt. Her platinum blonde hair took on a radiant golden hue under the overhead light. But her eyes were startlingly cold and resolved. She was an intruder, on a mission.

"Role playing."

"What?"

"Role playing. No one has ever tried role playing on Mr. Napier. He considers himself an actor and entertainer. Why has no one put that to use in this therapy?"

Dr. Arkham narrowed his eyes at her. "Because he is a controlling narcissist who is likely to turn the session against his psychologist."

"I'm a strong person, doctor." Harleen leaned forward and put both palms down on his desk. "I am not going to crumble just because The Joker decides not to play nice."

"You know I can't let you put yourself at risk."

"Actually, you can." She held out the release forms, already signed and dated. "There. I take full responsibility for whatever happens to me. You're not endangering the Asylum."

He read them over so slowly that she sank into a nearby chair and crossed her legs. He examined the documents in painstaking detail, much more attention than they required.

"I want to do this," she said, hoping to solve his internal struggle. "I want to take the risk to cure The Joker. If this is where I have to go with his treatment in order to further his therapy, this is where I must go. I can't use the same procedures that have already failed. It is not fair to the person he could be if he received help from us. Please."

"Did he threaten you?"

"Threats are part of his defense mechanism."

"Did he lay a hand on you?"

"Violence is also a part of his defense mechanism. If I were harmed too seriously to continue, if I feared for my own life, would I be asking you to approve those release forms? I assure you I would not. I value my own life. I passed a psych evaluation to qualify for this job. I am prepared."

"Did he promise you anything? Change? Progress? Turning over a new leaf?"

She shook her head firmly. "None of that. It is not only incomprehensible to him, but he is incapable of making such a promise. Nothing motivates him to play by our rules. He views himself as separate but above us. He is simply not required to behave, in his own estimation. He has never indicated anything to the contrary."

"Then how do you know he won't turn your role playing into something far more sinister?"

Dr. Quinzel folded her hands in her lap. "As I have said, doctor, he becomes aggressive only when pushed. He may not be a polite individual, but he only attacks when threatened. I am able to assess what poses a threat to him, and avoid those behaviors. One can never tell Mr. Napier what he is feeling, or how he can improve his life. One must let him take the lead, in order to show off how much more intelligent he is than we are."

"You've thought about this."

"I have."

He poised his ballpoint pen, paused, and then signed the release forms. His expression was grim.


	6. Diagnosis

Dr. Quinzel's office the next day, desk lamp on.

Harleen scribbled notes to herself in her medical journal. An open manila folder stuffed with photocopied session notes sat on her lap. She glanced down at them frequently and leafed through them. There was something she was trying to prove, but some of the session logs were more helpful than others.

Dr. Travis Hitchcock: Very agitated, argumentative. Claims conspiracy efforts of those all around him. Paranoid; Borderline personality.

Dr. Martha Omstead: Fixation on clowns. Identifies with clowns.

Dr. Michael Pithrock: Cites childhood abuse as reason for murdering. Claims grandfather was a clown.

Dr. Levi Ranathan: Obsessed with media attention, thinks self celebrity. Refers to self as Clown Prince of Crime – suggests childhood fantasies of growing up royalty exiled from some kingdom. When asked, "Joker" denied. Unwilling to talk about past.

Dr. Richard Scorzi: Seems likely sufferer from adult ADD, needs medication to regulate impulses. This issue separate from his homicidal pathology. Would be murderer even if not sufferer of ADD.

Dr. Mila Vanovitch: Seems extremely agitated, views Batman as embodiment of personal crisis. Sees Batman as punisher for all sins. Likens Batman to father. Is literal or figurative? Subject refuses to talk about "nemesis".

Dr. Janet Wilcox: Refers to self as a child figure. Needy, co-dependent. Likes to ensnare pretty women to be caretakers. Prone to violence against these mother figures. Probably seeks to re-enact childhood relationship with mother. Transference of resentment towards natural mother sets personal relationships to destruction.

Dr. Victor Yanos: Lack of detail in memory associated with chemical/substance abuse, probable cause creative disaster which formed his being. Split personality, indicated by blackouts and loss of time. Rapid mood change also suggestive of multiple personality disorder.

Harleen sighed and shook out her hand. Cramps. She hadn't written so much, so rapidly, in a long time. The last time she could remember concentrating as hard as this was in psychology classes. She almost forgot to breathe. It gave her a pounding headache.

"So what is the point?" She put a hand to her head and poked the paper with her pen. Harleen could swear she had an idea that would wrap it all up, but she couldn't get it out. She hated this. She didn't think all the doctors were right. That would be ridiculous. But she did think they were all seeing real symptoms. If she could pool all the symptoms together, she'd have a diagnosis, and then she'd know what to do with The Joker so that he wasn't…well…The Joker anymore.

Not that she wanted to change him. She wanted to improve him. Changing him wasn't the issue, it was helping him cope. Obviously he was only criminal because of a lack of coping skills. No one wanted to be a murderer. It just happened.

But she had to be careful, and that was why she was trying to come up with a thesis regarding The Joker's condition. She couldn't lie to herself: she was worried by the connection between Janet Wilcox's notes and the relationship she was trying to forge with The Joker. Transference was inevitable, but with people like The Joker, it wasn't that easy to put him on the right path and keep him from destroying the doctor-patient relationship.


End file.
